"It ain't what ya eat but the way how ya chew it." -- Delbert McClinton

 I met Delbert McClinton once, back in 1972 when he was playing some spot on Jacksboro Highway near Fort Worth and I was an 18yo college guy cruising for girls. What I ran into in that part of the world was honest-to-God women at least 30 smoking two packs a day and working maybe two jobs while their kids were at school. Way beyond my junior league but the music was good. Delbert still performs occasionally though he's in his early 80s. Great combination of blues, rock and country. He's in a class by himself.

The photo is of pommes de terre dauphinois -- otherwise known in the US as potatoes au gratin or sometimes scalloped potatoes. Over here the butcher shops (boucheries) sell raw meat but also various prepared sides and this is always one of them. Thin-sliced potatoes with cream, butter and milk plus whatever seasoning/cheese one chooses to add. But it's the process that makes this dish work just a bit better and (like so many things) it's how you get there that's most important.

The Italians have a pasta dish from Puglia (the heel of Italy) called all'Assassina. Normally one boils pasta separately then puts sauce over it or under it or (with butter or pesto) rolls it in. But with this dish, the pasta (usually spaghetti) is cooked IN the sauce. It's the process. not so much what's in it. So it is with this potato dish. Normally you slice raw potatoes, layer your cheese and whatever like a lasagna then bake it for an hour or so until it all comes together. In this case, you put your garlic, sliced potatoes and whatnot in boiling milk until they're about done, then top with cream, butter and cheese and bake.

The result is you're not tasting layers. Instead, you are tasting the combination of all in a wonderfully bubbly mess. Boiling milk is usually a bad idea. The closest we come is scalding milk for hot chocolate or something. But the French don't give a shit. There's curdling and a bit of a mess to clean up from the pot after it all goes in the oven to bake. C'est la vie and c'est le cuisine. C'est La France in the kitchen and pretty much elsewhere too.

My mom was a Dallas native born in Highland Park and raised across Denton Drive from Love Field, where my dad mustered out of the Air Corps after the war. She never lived out of Dallas County and used to tell me there were three ways to do things -- the right way, the wrong way and the Texas way. Of course to her the best way was always the third option. Even though she traveled a bit to Europe, Hawaii, Mexico, the Caribbean and even North Africa, her best way was always the Texas way. We never agreed on this after I moved out of the state at 20.

(An aside here. Mom had the hots for Charles Boyer when she was a teen and loved the movie "Algiers" with him and Hedy Lamarr. It's the one with "come weeth mee to ze Casbaaaah" and the inspiration for Pepe LePew. One time she and dad went to Barcelona and took a side trip to Algiers to actually see The Casbah and it ruined her image. It's pretty much a dump anymore. Sorry mom.)

There are plenty of ways to do the same thing and even improve on them by making a few adjustments. When we stop appreciating or seeking these, a little of us dies. Thinking Our Place is the Best Place is a handicap. It might work for now. It might be the Best Place in this situation. We don't have to physically move to make This Place a Better Place. But too often too many find That Place and it's their Only Place and it becomes a museum in the physical sense or, worse, in an emotional and attitudinal sense. "This is what and who and where we are and that's it. Take it or leave it."

I can think of no sadder turn. There's always a better way. Even if we stay where we are.